


The Green Star

by Cân Cennau (cancennau)



Series: Llenwadau Bingo Trôp Slâc OTW (2016) [2]
Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie, The War of the Worlds - H. G. Wells
Genre: Alien Invasion, Apocalypse, Cantair Set, Crossover, Deathfic, Drabble Series, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 01:29:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8125261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cancennau/pseuds/C%C3%A2n%20Cennau
Summary: Prompt: deathficHastings makes a wish on a shooting star one night, but it wasn't a star he saw.Agatha Christie's Poirot/The War of the Worlds crossover.





	

**Author's Note:**

> *casually shifts the timeline of The War Of The Worlds a few decades ahead*

“My God! Did you see that, Poirot?”

Poirot watches Hastings trace a finger across the window pane, and wonders what’s caught his attention this time.

“What have you seen, _mon ami?”_ he asks.

“A shooting star! It was bright _green_ \- shot straight across the sky!”

“Green? I think perhaps the wine has gotten to your head.” Poirot’s tone is amused, and Hastings rolls his eyes.

“Laugh at me if you want, Poirot.” Hastings replies, moving from the window. “I made a wish on it anyway.”

“And what did you wish for?”

“Ah, if I tell you it won’t come true...”

* * *

The star, as it turns out, was not a star at all. The papers have all the information the next morning, how something from Mars had been ejected, and that whatever the green flash Hastings had seen earlier had landed here on Earth.

“Aliens, Poirot!” Hastings tells him over breakfast. “Aren’t you even the remotest bit interested?”

“ _Mon cher_ ,” Poirot sighs, buttering more toast. “The comings and goings of other planets do not concern us.”

“But it landed _here_. In London!”

“As did I, and I remember the attention was not something I liked. Could you hand me the jam?”

* * *

Whatever it was had landed in Hyde Park, Hastings tells him this excitedly, hair windswept and tie askew, before he leaves again with a hasty apology. Miss Lemon keeps him company for lunch, but it’s not the same. Poirot knows that Miss Lemon is curious as to what exactly is going on, but she restrains herself, knowing that Hastings will tell her all. Poirot doesn’t care - he’s still irritated at Hastings for missing lunch, but obviously to Hastings he didn’t understand this is _once in a lifetime-_

Poirot stabs his rabbit pie with a little more force than is necessary.

* * *

Hastings comes home with a look in his eye that Poirot recognizes all too well from his shell-shocked Belgian compatriots.

There are people dead. Civilians, soldiers, all were destroyed by the heat ray of the Martian that arrived in a cylinder in the flash of green. Hastings doesn’t look up from his hands as he tells his story. Poirot can hear the rumble of heavy tanks trundling down the road, the wine in his abandoned glass trembling a little as they passed.

He makes sure his partner is ensconced in bed, before he starts drawing up his plans of escape.

* * *

Through Lawrence Cavendish, the youngest son still thankful for finding the murderers of his mother, Hastings, Miss Lemon and Poirot found themselves in Styles Court, the bare minimum of their possessions packed into Hastings’ car, and then unpacked in their rooms. Hastings takes the car out to a nearby town, to fill it with petrol so they could make good headway tomorrow towards Scotland.

As the remnants of dinner settle, Poirot hears across the wireless that another Martian cylinder has landed between Styles Court and the nearest town, and knows with a sickening feeling that Hastings is not coming back.

* * *

There’s a boat out from Eastwood, Lawrence tells him and Miss Lemon a few days later. Bound for Europe, for Antwerp in Belgium and other major seaports. The family lend them knapsacks, and they leave in the pony-trap with as much as they can carry. The little town is bustling with people trying to escape, and Poirot is not surprised to see people he recognizes from London as he fights his way with Miss Lemon across the gangplank.

It’s only when he’s on the ferry that he sees familiar bright blue eyes in the crowd abandoned on the dock.

_Hastings._

* * *

The ferry to Belgium is like the ferry that took him to Britain all those years ago - cramped, damp and lurching precariously. Poirot closes his eyes and has nightmares, like he did when he came from Belgium - but the dreams are not of his battered homeland, but of fighting machines and heat rays and the screams of the crew of the _HMS Thunder Child_ as they died.

He spends most of the time sequestered in a corner with Lawrence and Miss Lemon, sleeping on each other’s shoulders and holding hands when they weren’t eating. It’s silent - there’s nothing to say

* * *

Poirot is lucky - a returning countryman, with an esteemable reputation, he’s welcomed back to Belgium with open arms and a shortcut to the front of the refugee housing queue. Miss Lemon pretends to be his wife and gets the same treatment, but Lawrence is not so lucky and is sent to the hostel with the rest.

The house they’ve been given is nice, but Poirot cannot appreciate it. His mind flicks back and forth - fear, relief, sadness - Hastings was _alive_ , Hastings was _not here,_ Hastings was in danger from those Martians-

He’s home, but it doesn’t feel like home anymore.

* * *

The Belgians don’t believe them. Poirot hears it as he buys croissants, feels it in the stares as he gets Miss Lemon to practice her French, knows it in the half heard conversations on street corners.

“They think the army turned on us, don’t they?” Miss Lemon asks one day.

“ _Oui_.” Poirot sees no point in lying.

“We can’t talk about it to them, only amongst ourselves. I miss London, my friends...” A pause, a sigh. “I wish Captain Hastings was here. I wish we knew if he were still alive.”

Poirot busies himself with coffee to drown the heartache.

* * *

  _Mon cher Hastings,_

It has been several months since I last saw you on the docks before I left. I remember, seeing your face in the dim streetlights, staring at the tripods _terrifiante_. The British Army tells us they are dead, but what of you? You are not on their list of survivors. Are you, perhaps...

I cannot bring myself to write it.

I do not know if this letter will reach you. But if it does, reply as soon as you are able, for I, and Miss Lemon, and your friend Lawrence, await your response.

_Je t’aime,_

_Hercule Poirot_


End file.
